'The defendant hated Ron Nolan, and when he couldn't frame him for murder, in a drunken rage he went to Ron Nolan's house and killed him. The actual cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head. Not just to the head, mind you, but fired from a gun held just inches from the skull.
'But Defendant didn't just murder Ron Nolan. First, he administered a savage beating. He broke his jaw. He broke his wrist. He broke at least two of his ribs. He left bruises and cuts and injuries over a lot of Ron Nolan's body. The evidence will show that this defendant hated Ron Nolan, and he killed him.
'But if that is what happened, how do we know he did it? Well, for openers, he told his girlfriend he was going to. He left his fingerprint on the murder weapon found by the body. And within hours after Nolan's body was found, the police found Defendant cowering in his apartment, Ron Nolan's blood still on his hands and clothes, the injuries he'd received in the fight still unhealed, and the murdered man's blood still on the brass knuckles he used to inflict the beating I've described.
'This defendant hated Ron Nolan and he killed him. And he killed him in a way that the law defines as first- degree murder. At the close of the evidence in this case, I'll stand before you and that is the verdict for which I will ask.'
Mills was doing it by the book, dispassionately laying out the elements of the People's case. Like all prosecutors, she would consistently refer to the deceased as 'Mr. Nolan,' and later, sometimes, even Ron, to humanize him to the jury-a living, breathing human being whose life had been prematurely taken from him. By the same token, Evan Scholler would forever after remain 'the defendant,' or even, less familiarly, simply 'Defendant'-a clinical term denoting the place in society to which he'd fallen. A nameless, faceless perverter of the social order who deserved only the most cursory acknowledgment as a human being and no sympathy.
In the center of the courtroom one more time, she paused, noting that Washburn had let her go on this long without objection. It was a calculated technique, she knew, to signal to the jury that, in spite of this apparently damning litany condemning the defendant, the defense remained confident-nay, unconcerned by these allegations.
Letting out a theatrical sigh, Mills again allowed herself a glance over to the defendant's table, but this look communicated sadness and resignation. No one would have enjoyed putting on the kind of recitation she'd just completed. The human condition was sometimes a terrible burden. Mills had done her disagreeable though imperative job, hoping to bring justice to the evil defendant and closure to the victim and to those who had loved him.
Washburn had the option of coming out swinging now with his defense opening statement, or waiting until the People had presented their case and delivering it then. After Mills had sat down, Tollson asked him what he wanted to do, and he said he'd be going right ahead with his statement now. He didn't like to let the jury sit too long with one story without being made aware that there was another one, or another version of the same one. He found that if the prosecution got to make an unrebutted opening statement and then followed it with up to a week or more of its own witnesses, all he could do was play defense. And this passive style didn't win too many cases.
But, furthering his earlier strategy of avoiding interruptions and objections, he no sooner indicated to the judge his decision to give his opening statement-enthusiasm to defend his innocent client!-than he got the gallery chortling by commenting, in his folksiest manner, 'But after Ms. Whelan-Miille's eloquent opening statement, Your Honor, the bladder of a poor old country lawyer could sure use a short recess.' Which of course, reflected his opinion that the prosecution's opening had not in any way threatened his client, or even called into question Evan's innocence. Washburn would get to all that in just a minute in his own opening statement and clear up any nagging little inconsistencies that might point to Evan's guilt.
But first he had to pee.
Though, actually, he didn't.
The judge gave them fifteen minutes, and Washburn and Evan took the opportunity to walk out the courtroom's back door to the small holding cell, where they sat across from each other on the cold cement blocks that served as benches. Washburn had shaved carefully but had missed a fairly obvious spot along his jawline for three days running now. Beyond that, never sartorially close to splendid, in a too-large wheat-colored suit with a ludicrous orange tie, he looked particularly disheveled today, as he would every day of the trial. His ten-year-old brown wing-tips had frayed laces and holes in both soles, so he could cross either leg and get the regular-guy message out. Juries, he believed, didn't like fancy dressers as defense lawyers. They liked real people who talked straight and respected their intelligence. And it didn't hurt if you had a personality either.
But now his immediate concern was his client. Evan had cleaned up pretty good. In contrast to defense attorneys, juries tended to like handsome and decently dressed defendants. Not too handsome, especially in a jury with seven men, but respectable. Evan's body language already spoke with an accent of defeat and dejection-not unexpected, given Mills's effective castigation of him-but troublesome nonetheless.
They both sat with their elbows on their knees, heads nearly touching. 'You don't look good,' Washburn said. 'That get to you?'
Evan raised his eyes. 'I can't believe I did so many stupid things.'
'You were injured,' Washburn said with apparent sincerity. 'You weren't back to yourself yet. You are now.'
'You believe that?'
'I do.'
A pause. 'You believe
'I wouldn't be here if I didn't.'
'Is that true?'
Washburn took a long beat. 'That is God's truth, my son. You may not know what you did, and you know what that's consistent with?'
'What's that?'
'Innocence. If you weren't there, you wouldn't know what happened, would you?'
Evan sighed. 'Everett, I broke into his house.'
'You did not break into his house. You let yourself into his house.'
'Either way. That was just stupid.'
'Granted. It's one of the things I find fascinating about this case, all the stupidity.' He held up a hand. 'No, I'm serious. You've admitted to a lot of stupid behavior, plus you were drinking way too much, which never helps, but you've never admitted planting that evidence at Nolan's, have you?'
'That's because I didn't.'
'You know that. I know it. And that would have been another stupid move. So it's not the stupidity that's keeping you from copping to it. You see what I'm saying? Staying drunk for four days after your fight with Nolan was stupid. Not going to work all that time was stupid. But you didn't drive up to Nolan's in an alcoholic stupor, somehow get into his home without alerting him, get ahold of his gun, and kill him. You couldn't have done it. Your state of mind, pardon me, was too stupid. Whoever did this planned it, timed it, did it right. And call me a soft- hearted romantic, I don't see that being you.'
Evan almost broke a smile. 'You going to argue that?'
'If I can get the right spin on it, which might be a trick. But, listen, the main thing…'
'I'm listening.'
'I need you to buck up in there. You don't have to be indignant, or angry, or anything negative. But you've got to sit up straight and don't let the weight of all the shit she's piling on you get you down. You'll look guilty and pathetic.'
'You want me to look happy?'
'No! God, no. You're unjustly accused. Nobody's happy with that. But you're a soldier. You're fighting the
